First/Last/everything

I climb toward the lake with two dogs, one real and one a ghost. I am the first person to make it this far this year, and there are still snowdrifts. Trees, weakened from the fire three years ago, or is it four, have toppled into the trail, forcing us to claw our way through. The logs that we crossed the creeks on for years have been swept away in earlier floods.

For someone who moved every six months for ten years, someone who gets restless if one day is a replica of another, I find change surprisingly hard.

Exactly eight months to the day, October 1, I took Ruby on her last hike to this lake, though I didn't know it then. The lake, then, was surrounded by gold and green, winter not far off. We even got caught in a little snowstorm. Today, winter was loosening its grip, the ice slowly melting off the lake surface. The seasons move like a wheel, around and around.

Ruby walks beside me here. I can feel her adventurous spirit, can almost see her fluffy tail and her happy jog. She didn't swim, that last hike. She settled by the water and didn't seem to want to leave. She probably knew before I did that her life was measured in days.

Spruce, the living dog, has no desire to rest. He charges through life as fast as he can. Like he is afraid of missing out. He is also reactive in certain situations. For this reason, he can only come along on days like this, on winter bound trails, when there's little chance of other dogs. He plops down on the snow but fidgets. His natural tendency is to be on the move. I understand this.

We don't linger long. I stare at the pass and calculate if it's doable. It looks like it may be. I remember taking Ruby on a long day hike there, unaware of the hot dirt under her feet, and how we had to run because she was burning her paws. I've camped with her many times at the high lake above here. This whole forest is full of memories.

We head back, climbing over the down trees, fording the creeks, postholing in the snow. It's not a long hike, but it's a good one.

Spruce hangs at my heels. He seems nervous. I don't know what's making him afraid: the ghosts of dead trees, or the ghosts that walk with us. Dogs can sense so much more than we can imagine.

Ruby was my everything dog, and I still look for her everywhere. But I also know that she had the very best short life a dog could ever have. We did everything we could to try to save her. I opened my heart with no regrets. There's pieces of her still out here, scattered through the lakes and the trees and the rivers. Hi sweetie, I say.

I really don't like pictures of myself…I look so old. But then I thought: when I am 80, I will look back and think how young I was. So here is one. And the light was just right so I don't look all wrinkled. Winning!

But this was not a sad day. It was the first for Spruce, bringing him to a special place, where he could run and be free of whatever triggers exist in his mind. I feel bad for him sometimes; he is on alert almost all the time. Here, he can let that burden down. It is worth it, climbing through memories as sticky as spiderwebs.

We reach the trail bridge, one that was built last summer after the long standing one finally was swept away. This one seems sturdy enough, but I have no doubt it will succumb one day. We will have to figure out another way to cross, me and whichever dog trails behind.

Changes. May we meet them with courage and grace.